


Another Name for Fear

by TheWasAndShouldBeKing



Series: Another Name for Fear [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, BlackIce, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Cracks in the fourth wall, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father Figure North, M/M, Pet Nightmare, Possession, Redemption, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, mild whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5335481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWasAndShouldBeKing/pseuds/TheWasAndShouldBeKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the defeat of Pitch Black, Jack Frost goes to check up on the completely absentee Boogeyman and finds their fallen enemy not so resilient as the rest of the Guardians expected. Jack's curiosity and a split-second act of mercy results in a domino effect which may end centuries of war and loneliness, but might also resurrect a darkness and evil even older than Pitch himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my personal effort at resolving the travesty that is the end fate of Pitch Black in the 'Rise of the Guardians' film, and exploration of wealth of possibilities hinted at in that world, as well as the undeniable chemistry between Pitch and Jack.
> 
> I've been writing this largely for my own gratification, but it grew too large not to share. I hope anyone reading enjoys, and feedback is always appreciated. Without further ado...

The Lair looked much as Jack remembered, labyrinthine and tenebrous. Thin light slanted through the cavernous spaces, cheerless, almost spectral. Bereft of the life-giving glow the light in Bunny's subterranean Warren possessed. This light served the shadows cast about the beams, dark swaths cutting through the pale illumination, rather than the reverse.

He floated through the eerie melding of architecture and landscape on soft breezes that the stagnant, mineral air felt reluctant to grant. The leaden cages still hung empty above his head, dripping between threatening fangs of rock. Jack had the distinct impression of a gigantic maw, just waiting for its prey to swim a little deeper, before snapping firmly shut. He drifted over the mangled remains of the iron globe, pressing on.

Where the hell was Pitch? Where were the Nightmares? Jack supposed it was always night, somewhere in the world, but the utter emptiness of the Lair had the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He'd more expected to find the Boogeyman pacing among his remaining stable of jet black monsters, plotting a new long game to an eventual return. The thought of him perhaps already stalking the night sat uneasily in Jack's gut, but even less so in his mind.

It didn't seem right. Surely if Pitch were up to making bold moves the Boogeyman would come for Jamie and his friends, first. There'd been no sign of him near Burgess. No sign of him _anywhere_. ...Including here.

Jack scowled, scanning the shadows. Every dark corner might harbour his quarry, and he watched for the golden, predatory glint of eyes. For the serpentine coil of black Sand that might reach out to snatch at him. Last time Pitch had sent him tumbling through a myriad of shadows, into staircases, and tilted walkways, and suddenly-not-so-dead-ends that Jack wasn't sure he could navigate on his own. It had been difficult enough finding his way down here to start.

The apprehension crawling up the back of his throat had begun to convince him this was actually a pretty terrible idea.

There had been no easy way into the Lair. Directly after the final battle, the Guardians had returned to the Pole for a proper initiation celebration for Jack. It wasn't every century a new Guardian was chosen after all. But once the music had wound down and the revelry had ended, the newly christened Spirit of Fun had returned home quickly, just to double check that the Boogeyman had gone for good.

He'd found the entrance to the Lair closed, the ancient, weathered bed frame that had marked it, vanished. The only sign that it had ever been was a trail of several deep, thin furrows dragged parallel to each other through the earth, scored in a broken and pell mell course back to an empty and solid patch of ground. April showers had washed the marks away eventually, and in _five years_ nothing had disturbed the spot again.

In that time Jack had kept what he told himself was a casual eye out for any likely alternates, but he'd not seen its like in all the world. In the end, once anxiousness and uncertainty had got the better of him, Jack had quietly nicked a pair of North's magic portal Snow Globes to pull off this break-in.

_It was his eyes._

Pitch's eyes had haunted Jack, stalked both waking thoughts and sleeping, well after the battle was won and hopes, dreams, wonder, and fun held peaceful dominion over the world again. Not the cruel, narrowed glares, nor the mad, murderous, glee; but the artless, upward knit of that smooth brow over an entirely unguarded and devastated stare, and the pin-prick pupiled terror of someone who knows _intimately_ what his abductors are capable of.

One would assume, having battled viciously with the very embodiment of darkness and fear, that any nightmares or flashbacks would focus on the most harrowing moments for one's self and companions. Not for Jack Frost, save one, and that centered more upon the lost comrade than his would-be assassin, when Jack thought back on it. More often than not, when darker moods and memories stole up on Jack, it was the aftermath that crept in unbidden and startled him to consciousness, rather than the conflict itself.

He spent several years trying to forget it, and it seemed easy at first, with a brand new purpose to his gallivanting and cavorting across the globe. There were millions of children to pay mind to and funnel all his attention on. It was always in the most unexpected moments of quiet that Jack's thoughts would veer into darkness and doubt.

Five years on, a small but insistent part of Jack wondered if these thoughts weren't actually his own. It was a little irrational, but not at all impossible to believe the Boogeyman himself might be creating these bad dreams, unseen and luring Jack's mind astray from the shadows. It was not something Jack felt probable enough to share with the other Guardians, but the mild paranoia persisted, sticking like the barbs of a burr.

Jack couldn't interest any of the other Guardians in checking up on Pitch under any other pretext though. Everyone clearly felt sure their enemy could handle himself against a dozen of his own minions, given time, though Pitch wouldn't truly rally again in so short a span. Jack didn't see any reason to doubt them. They'd all been dealing with Pitch to varying degrees of antagonism for centuries, so they must know better.

And the Guardians were far too busy to concern themselves with the overthrown Boogeyman. Maybe it was just inexperience, but whether or not Jack's pet figment turned out to be not so imaginary, he still couldn't let the sheer entirety of Pitch's disappearance go.

So, Jack had taken matters into his own hands.

He was trying to decide between actually sitting down to _wait_ until Pitch decided to materialize, and just buggering off, when he heard the voice. Small, thin, terribly afraid. It echoed out of some unseen corridor, bounced around the cavern, to be swallowed by the dead atmosphere. Jack's heart hammered suddenly in his chest, a deeper dread than he thought possible sinking him like a stone. "No..."

A keening shriek cemented his fears, and Jack vaulted back into the stale air, chasing the echo, trying to find the opening within the maze of impossible geometry. There was no litter of Tooth Boxes full of memory this time. Pitch had _taken_ a child.

Panic drove Jack recklessly through the dark. He hurtled down one pathway, only to smack into a smooth granite wall. The scream that had seemed to come so loudly from this direction only a moment before was now muffled beyond the stone. He struck his fist against it in frustration, the retort a dull thud with no indication it might be hollow on the other side. Less than half a heartbeat later he shot off back the way he came, swerved down a side passage, ears straining for the source of the pitiful wailing.

He couldn't quite pick out words from the cries, but he didn't need to. The cadence translated clearly: a child begging, as they were wont to do, for the help of their mother or father, to be rescued, that they were _scared_. Jack felt his own icy fear lancing down his spine, mingling with an outrage that would have its vent as soon as he laid eyes on Pitch.

There! Another cry, a litany of pleading in strange, but not uncertain words.

Jack banked again, pulled up sharp, and snarled as his hands and feet hit the metal grate. He gripped it fast and _yanked_ , stomach dropping out when it remained fast embedded in the stone, no portal to it at all.

"STOP!" The shout that thundered up through the vent surely belonged to Pitch. The ferocity of it redoubled Jack's desperation, his fingertips scrabbling along the ragged edge of the grate, looking for a catch, a seam. "STOP THIS! STOP! IT'S NOT HER. YOU'RE. NOT. _HER!!_ You don't have her! You _don't_! You never did..."

For a moment Jack froze, utterly still. There had been something in Pitch's fury, something not at all right. Jack's heart still galloped in his chest, his mind screaming to him that he had to get the child and get out, but something else held him to the spot. Something missing from Pitch's ragged voice: malice. Something else there in its place.

Confusion tumbled Jack like an unanticipated gust of wind. The little girl began to cry again, but not quite so urgently now. He leapt back up, turning on the grate, trying to see down through the gaps. The depth of darkness inside was almost unfathomable. He could barely pick out a small patch of pale outline, and a shimmer of oily, iridescent black.

All he could really see, were the eyes. Maybe a dozen pair of incandescent orbs, ringing that smudge of almost grey.

The little girl wailed again, knifing terror through Jack's heart and rending a _scream_ from Pitch. Metal scrapped across stone, chain snapped taut, and suddenly the childlike shrieks dissolved into an equine roar. Jack's fingers gripped tight to his perch.

The ring of eyes erupted into brief chaos, a soft, but heavy _thunk_ silencing Pitch. Whickers and chuffs of breath filled the moments that followed, sounds that Jack knew meant Nightmares, as though the eyes hadn't already given it away. The most disturbing part was how much those animalistic noises felt like _laughter_.

Jack let go of the grate, giving it up as a lost cause, and began searching near by for an actual entrance. It seemed that he moved in the nick of time, for the moment his feet touched the floor, the hiss of Sand whispered loudly above his head. Streams of it poured from the grate, Nightmares reforming as they surged down the passages that Jack had followed here. He crouched swiftly, staff pulled to his chest and aimed at the aerial stampede, but all he saw of them was hoof and flank.

When the last whisp vanished out of sight, Jack finally rose again. This time he actually found the doorway rather quickly. A merit of not being in a blind panic.  
He approached cautiously, wary of a sentry, but the chamber, cavernous in its own right, proved nigh empty. He sought first for any sign of a flesh and blood child. His heart still pounded in his throat, only half-convinced the voice had _come_ from a Nightmare. Perhaps the little girl had merely been drown out. If so, she hadn't left with them by the grate.

Nothing.

He circled the perimeter of the room first, every moment expecting to find a tiny, crumpled body, but the shadows yielded only bare floor, and empty air. His shoulders sagged, a much slower form of dread weighting his insides as he turned back to the room's only other occupant.

Pitch lay sprawled, the smudge of grey taking shape, at the very edge of a slim and insignificant ray of ghostly light. He'd gone down on his knees, or nearly, long legs folded awkwardly, body bent upon itself, looking broken. His arms stretched hard behind him, wrists shackled in a dull metal without gleam, and chains ran back, taut, to some obfuscated point upon the floor.

Jack crouched on the other side of the watery beam, looking at the drawn planes of the angular face, half pressed into the floor. Pitch was out cold, but agony had etched itself into those ashen features, which not even unconsciousness could smooth away. A distinctly crescent wound cut into his temple, the blow of a Nightmare's hoof to the head. A shiver that had nothing to do with temperature traveled down Jack's spine at the sight of the dark liquid sheeting across the Boogeyman's jaw and back into his stiff, black hair.

He hadn't known the monster could bleed, but it was something else on Pitch's face that caught Jack's breath.

He reached a hand out through the light, trembling a little with leftover adrenaline, touched the grimy shadows beneath Pitch's deep-set eyes, and came back with frost on his fingers.

_Tears._

Jack's own pale brow creased. He rubbed the gritty rime between thumb and forefingers, gut twisting in knots he couldn't understand. Pitch was the enemy, the Boogeyman, tormentor of children's innocent minds, corrupter of their dreams. Turnabout should seem like fair play.

"So how come it really, really doesn't...?" Jack muttered, miserably, cringing as more of those hysterical, equine shrieks echoed in the distance. Pitch seemed to spasm in response, terror gripping him through the obvious concussion. Jack's stomach somersaulted, and he swept to his feet, hand thrust into his pocket, resting anxiously upon the second snow globe.

He left it there for the moment though. With his thin paranoia sufficiently dispelled, Jack wanted desperately to leave this shadowed purgatory and never look back. But barring the return of the Nightmares... He couldn't go without Pitch. Three flabbergasted voices and images of furiously shifting golden symbols all popped simultaneously to mind, but he couldn't bring himself to be swayed by them. He just hoped the Boogeyman wasn't bothered by subarctic temperatures. If Antarctica had been any indication...

He used the crook of his staff to slide Pitch's long frame out of the way. His shoulders looked even more painfully strained, jammed together behind his back, but there was little helping that, and Jack wasn't sure exactly how deep these sudden sympathies actually ran.

With the staff across his lap, he laid hands directly on the links. They felt oddly soft, for metal, a curious feeling he didn't have time to dwell on as frost curled over the surface, sinking into the chain. He pushed the cold out through his hands until the metal went white, coated in layers of hoarfrost and opaque ice, then gave the links a sharp twist and-

_Nothing._

His stomach plummeted again. Iron should have shattered at the temperature he'd dropped these to, but the chains remained whole, unbroken. Perhaps they'd been enchanted? If that were the case, things definitely did not look good. Jack's magic so far seemed isolated to blizzards and snowball fights, ice storms at the worst. The occasional burst pipe, not spell-breaking.

"Burst pipe. That's it!" At least he fervently hoped so. He'd gone five years off and on with a brief look of terror eating at him; there was no way he could just walk away from _this_.

He stood once more and nudged his staff against the chains, threading the shaft through the wide gaps in the thick links. It was still a tight fit, only just, but he managed, and it was for the best. Grasping the crook, he sent ice spreading across the slate floor, climbing up and out from the rod, squeezing into the space between the links. It wanted to take the path of least resistance, up and over the metal, but Jack threw all his focus on those narrow bands, funneling the pressure of the ice against them. The chain was unwilling in the extreme, Jack puffing cold breaths into the stale air that blew and hollowed out his cheeks in turn.

"C'mon... Just... _Break!_ "

The metal screamed as it snapped, the taut chain whipping across the floor, crashing first and foremost into Jack's ankle. He swore at the heavy blow, tumbled to the floor, right across Pitch's limp, liberated shape, and watched in dismay as the snow globe popped free of his sweatshirt to go rolling. The instantaneous shriek and clatter of the Nightmares sounded afar off, but he knew their speed. He'd be caught in seconds.

No time to think. Only to react. Jack thrust his free arm around Pitch's torso, under one arm and across his chest. He still had a vice grip on his staff, and sent another burst of ice shooting away to propel them over the uneven stone, hurtling toward the snow globe. Jack didn't even hear himself shouting out the destination. His whole awareness was of lamp-like eyes flaring all around them, roars of fury drowning out his voice, long, sharp mouths snapping in the air.

The portal burst into light, turning the writhing, oily, black swarm to shimmering blues and greens and purples. Jack, after creeping through the dark for as long as he had, found himself blinded by the brilliance, only able to hope none of the Nightmares chased them through.

The portal snapped shut swiftly as Jack, dragging the rag doll form of Pitch, tumbled out the other side. They skidded fast along a none-too-soft, but blessedly smooth surface, then careened at last into fragrant bales of hay.

Jack's vision continued to pop, brilliant sparks of light seared into his retinas, despite the fact the portal had gone. His ears rang briefly, before filling again with the sound of huffing breaths and stamping hooves. For a panicked moment, Jack thought they hadn't made it out, or that the Nightmares had come through. It was not their screams and roars that greeted Jack's arrival though, but the deep, indignant grunting and bellow of startled reindeer.

Jack heaved a relieved sigh, helped in no small part by the dead weight sprawled across him. He sucked the breath back in instantly as the silhouette of two wary Yeti loomed up above them.

"Hey, guys..."

_Shit._

He'd brought Pitch Black to the Pole.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've found writing North far more entertaining than I expected. I really enjoy his father-figure role with Jack. He's far better at it than a certain extraterrestrial creator being. 
> 
> ...Though I probably shouldn't be as hard on Manny as I am, at least in my own timeline of events. Three-hundred years of vetting a potential Guardian before giving him the stamp of approval might not be that unreasonable. But movie Manny? FUCK OFF!!!
> 
> Once again, I hope you enjoy, and feedback is appreciated, as always!

If he hadn't been limping along almost one-legged, leaning on his staff for a crutch after near-death-by-Nightmare, Jack would have found the image of Pitch slung like an empty sack over the shoulder of a giant, fuzzy Yeti far more entertaining. Floating would have been easier on the ankle, but his unencumbered escort had knocked him back down to earth with a heavy hand every time he'd tried it, an eye on Jack that clearly said, 'Stay grounded.'

So, it was back to criminal status around the Workshop. Everything back in order then.

Unfortunately, the Pole was not laid out with any sort of back way up. They had to go straight through the main development and assembly floors to reach North's office. All around them rounded eyes and startled faces followed the small procession, murmurs of shock and rumor spreading fast behind.

The Yeti knocked on the workroom door with surprising delicacy for all the anger obviously boiling away beneath the fuzz, and North answered with the air of a man in the midst of sticky spot he'd rather not be pulled from unraveling. He looked set to deliver a lecture to whomever dared interrupt, then he laid eyes on Jack and Pitch.

"Rimsky-Korsakov Mussorgsky Cui Borodin Balakirev!" The litany of Russian nationalist composers began low and slow and rose in pace and pitch as the Cossack ran his wide blue gaze over the scene in front of him. Definitely full of wonder, though Jack would bet nothing like the usual sort.

North threw the door aside, motioning Jack and Derek, who bore the burden of an unconscious Boogeyman, inside. Alan he sent off to fetch an armchair, and it wasn't but a moment before the ginger Yeti came back with the massive piece of furniture, carrying the thing like it was folded paper. He thunked it down where North pointed, and Derek slid the boneless form of Pitch off his shoulder and into the chair.

The pair shuffled out, taking up posts on either side of the workroom door, and North shut and bolted its puzzle box lock behind them. He thrust one thick digit at the wooden banquet chair that had made its way up at some point during one of Jack's previous visits, a clear direction to sit, and said, "Now, you are making explanation," as he began an inspection of his least expected guest.

Jack plunked himself down gratefully, leaning his staff against the saw table so he could lift and ice his swollen ankle. "You remember that _super_ awkward moment last New Year's, when I said something about it being weird that there'd been _no_ sign _at all_ of Pitch or the Nightmares, not even _once_ , and you guys all just looked at me like _I'd_ grown rabbit ears, and laughed?"

North answered with a non-committal sound that _might_ have held a small admission Jack _may_ have had a point. Jack watched him slide back the lapel of Pitch's shredded cloak, revealing a shoulder covered in bruises and scars, some of which had a distinctly bite-like quality, from large, sharp mouths.

"Yeah, well it kept nagging at me, and since everyone was so much help, I figured out my own way down into the Lair, to check things out for myself. Turns out, you guys were right, Pitch and his Nightmares were holed up down there the _whole time_." He winced a little at his own snark, but in spite of the ice his ankle was on _fire_ , and the memory of the dismissal still smarted. "It just wasn't exactly the evil, brooding, self-pity party we were all assuming."

"Mmmmm..." the tuneless hum rumbled from North's chest, and he moved away from the armchair, unblocking sunlight from the windows. Daylight streamed over Pitch, incongruously cheerful against his wan figure. Jack almost expected to see him start smoking and burst into flame, but nothing so dramatic happened.

After a brief word out the workroom door, North returned, this time leaving it slightly ajar. He pulled the stool away from his workbench, dragging it forward to sit opposite the Boogeyman. Jack began to feel the uncertainty that came of not having North look at him, even once, since he'd let them in.

"...I didn't mean to bring him here. I don't really know _what_ I was going to do with him, but the Nightmares attacked, and I panicked. I just-... I'm sorry, North."

An unexpected chuckle answered the apology, very little humour to it, but not devoid entirely. North finally threw Jack a glance, the look of long-suffering acceptance from someone who remembers well what it is to be young and rash.

"So this is why you are stealing snow globe... It is good thing you did not bring him to Warren. You want to be seeing upset? What the Nightmares started, maybe Bunny would finish," North spoke darkly, one arm across his belly, fingers tracing the frame of beard and moustache around the grim set of his lips, as his eyes returned to Pitch. They roamed his gaunt shape again, resting on the manacles and trailing links of chain upon his wrists. "Lead. I think we'll be leaving those."'

"Lead?" Jack frowned. "No wonder I couldn't just ice them. I thought the anathema of evil was supposed to be silver? Or cold iron."

"Pitch is not movie monster. Nor is he faerie. But he will not simply vanish on us, so long as he is bound this way. It will not make him happy..." North trailed off helplessly.

"I don't really care if he's _happy_ ," Jack shook his head, frowning at Pitch. His brow creased further, unable to quite get over how bad off Pitch really looked, revealed in the crisp, Arctic light. "I just couldn't... I couldn't leave him like _that_."

North nodded solemnly, taking a basin of steaming water from a chestnut Yeti Jack didn't know, along with a cheery, red towel. The colour didn't seem to do much to disguise the stain of Pitch's blood though, as North began to gently daub the tacky stuff from his head wound. "Is his blood... black?"

North shrugged, canting his head in a noncommittal nod. "Nearly. His skin is grey. This is surprising to you?"

"I kind of didn't think he _could_ bleed."

"Pitch is not Nightmare. I mean, he is _nightmare_ , but he is not-"

"Yeah," Jack interjected, turning the wooden chair so he could sit on it backwards, arms folded over the backrest, slouching pensively. "Yeah, I get your meaning."

Relative silence stretched between them. The distant noises of the Workshop continued to drone on in the background, and droplets of water fell musically, every time North rinsed and rung out the towel. Jack picked at a knot in the wood, trying to square his thoughts on Pitch.

North worked with the sort of caring delicacy he afforded new inventions; something unexpected from such a brash warrior with such large hands, especially when granted to the Boogeyman. It reminded Jack how new he was, to being a Guardian, and in spite of three centuries of life, to just being in this world. The Dark Ages and Pitch's reign of power had been over before Jack had even been born.

"North... Has Pitch ever... I mean, he threatened Jamie, but has Pitch ever... Actually killed a kid?"

The giant Cossack's brows creased, his whole expression one of consternation, focused on his unconscious patient. He did not answer for a moment, wiping the last unstained corner of the cloth softly over Pitch's grimy features.

"There are stories, of course. Many rumors. Pitch has never denied them, and I challenged him often, in the old days, but..."

"But...?" Jack's backside left his seat without his own noticing, hands gripping the rungs of the chair.

"But he has never boasted of it, either." North sighed, a heavy sound, as he turned his attentions to Pitch's ragged hands, the raw fingertips with their shattered, even missing nails.

Jack sat back down, deflated. "That's not much to go on."

"No," North agreed. "And in the Dark Ages, children died often, of many things. There were bodies, sometimes, but no way to be knowing if Pitch had a hand in it, or simply used the tragedy to grow his legend."

He glanced over to Jack, a sad sort of smile offered to the skeptical raise of the young man's brows.

"Pitch is more like us than I often care to think, Jack. He needs the children, as we do, their belief in him. And there were not so many, in those days. I wonder, could he be ruthless enough to sacrifice even a precious few, for the belief of the others? But I am not convinced he was having to."

Jack scowled at the uncertainty, less able to get a bead on their enemy now than before he'd asked. "And the others? What do they think?"

"Mmmmm... Bunny believes Pitch to be capable of anything. Tooth, as far as I am knowing, has never made up mind."

"And Sandy?"

North chuckled, carefully paring away the jagged points from Pitch's ruined nailbeds. "Who is really knowing? But I think he does not believe it. He has fought Pitch Black for longer, and more often than any Guardian, bedroom by bedroom, night after night."

"And yet, the creepy closet-lurker still lives."

"Exactly," North nodded sagely, folding away the knife. He arranged the Boogeyman's lax hands into his lap, then shifted his stool around to one side of Pitch's chair, tilting the lolling head to show the raw hoof cut to the light. "Hand me gold wire, please, Jack."

Jack lifted the spool from the work bench, an extremely fine filament that gleamed in the light. He knew in a moment that North hadn't just been referring to the colour when he called it gold. He passed it off, tentatively, and pushed back from his chair when North produced a crescent needle from somewhere in the folds of his sash. Probably meant for the stitching up of split seams on teddy bears, Jack wasn't at all interested in seeing it go to work on Pitch's head.

"I'll just... I'm gonna..."

North laughed at his squeamishness and waved Jack off. "Don't worry. I have Yeti, in case of angry Boogeyman."

True to word, Derek and Alan were still standing guard at the doorway as Jack floated through, casting him dark looks for all his antics. North might have his Naughty List, but Jack suspected he'd be on the Yeti Shit List for decades after this one. It amused him less than he'd have liked.

Coasting along the many staircases, Jack tried to let the bustle of the Workshop distract him. Even in the height of summer, the place was a bee hive of activity, with new toys being tested, older models upgraded or phased out. For a time Jack saw none of it, his misadventure in the Lair clinging like a bad dream. Eventually though he ran afoul of a pack of elves, apparently trying to improve upon an eggnog recipe.

The creepy little creatures were already off-kilter on their own, but three sheets to the wind they were down right hysterical. Jack had to bluff his way through several offered taste-tests to remain in audience, the variations of which included licorice, parsley, and jalapeño, but the pint-sized mixologists were too far gone to call him on his pantomime.

After a while all that brandy left the elves yawning and nodding, tripping over one another and often not bothering to pick themselves up again. Distraction at an end, Jack found himself slinking back toward North's workroom. He bumped into the great tinker on a landing of the stair.

"All patched up then?"

North nodded, dusting his palms together in a gesture of a job done.

"How much longer do you think he'll...?" Jack leapt up lightly to sit on the rail, leaning his shoulder into the bend of his staff.

North shrugged, glancing back over his shoulder where he'd left his strange patient. "Who knows? Could be minutes. Could be days. ...Could be very, very long time. I am having Yeti prepare him rooms in unused storage, anyway."

"You're gonna keep him at the Pole?" Jack's eyebrows lifted, following North's gaze, as though he could lay eyes on the Boogeyman, see for certain that he was still a tattered and emaciated wreck, and not throwing some illusion aside to begin new villainy.

"Where else can he go?" North shrugged, helplessly, his tone turning very grave as he continued. "You saved him, Jack, and I have helped you. We cannot cast him to the winds. If he wakes, and chooses exile once more?" Another shrug, "but until then, we are now owing Pitch asylum," and North continued on his downward path, forcing Jack to either leave it at that, or follow.

"I hadn't thought about that," Jack tore his gaze away, trailing guiltily behind with a hand shoved down in his pocket. He watched the heavy clump of North's boots down the stair ahead of him, mouth screwing into a frown. Shame crept up on him, a bitter feeling, old and familiar. He'd screwed up so many things on his path to joining the Guardians. He'd hoped he'd be turning over a new leaf, starting a new chapter, getting that clean slate that North had offered him. All those wonderfully idyllic cliches. "Guess I still can't help making a mess of everything, huh?"

He pressed his eyes closed with a sigh, startling when he knocked into North from behind. Even after five years, the very ability to bump into another person was almost entirely novel. It left Jack slightly breathless.

The older Guardian turned around to face him, steadying Jack with firm, gentle hands upon his shoulders. "Jack Frost, just because situation is difficult does not mean you did the wrong thing."

Jack's brows knitted up this time, bewildered by North's earnestness. His own penchant for mayhem wouldn't let him trust it. "But this is _Pitch_. He tried to _kill_ you, North, and if it weren't for the kids Sandy would be dead, and all of you along with him, probably. And I brought him here, without even thinking, without even asking-"

"You think I am not knowing?" the Cossack laughed, deep and hearty, standing straighter before he thumped Jack between the shoulders.

"And don't think I am forgetting about snow globes." North folded his massive arms across his chest, and Jack could not help but notice the prominence of the tattoo reading 'naughty'. A moment later however, his posture softened.

"Pitch may be evil, and delight in suffering of others, but that is not in me, Jack, and I am glad it is not in you. If I had known, after all this time, Pitch had not mastered the Nightmares, I would have been in that Lair alongside you.

"However..." North looked into Jack's eyes meaningfully, and he knew before the other finished he wouldn't be getting off this impulsive and consequential rescue scott-free. "Now we are being in this together. The Boogeyman is now _our_ responsibility."

Jack winced at the weight of that and eyed the hand North proffered somewhat ruefully. Responsibility had never been one of Jack's strong suits. He'd been sorting out the idea of it, and what it meant for him since taking the Guardian oath,but this had never been an aspect he'd envisioned. He'd imagined any future obligations involving Pitch to be knocking him back to the shadows, if he ever even dared put a toe out of them.

But how much upkeep could a vanquished and, for the moment at least, still unconscious Boogeyman take?

The idea still chafing his carefree spirit, Jack took North's hand and shook it. There was no celebration at entering into this contract, just a solemn nod before North broke away. Jack wasn't sure exactly what he'd have to do, but North obviously wasn't going to stop making toys in preparation for a holiday more than half a year away. Jack supposed he'd just check in from time to time between frostings and snowball fights in Coralco and Alice Springs.

Though maybe it'd be a good idea to go easy on Australia this season, just in case. 


	3. Chapter 3

Jack swung by the Workshop daily the first week. Each time North offered cookies and cocoa and the promise that Pitch's condition remained unchanged. He started stretching it out a bit, after that. It wasn't that he was _trying_ to weasel out of whatever these responsibilities were supposed to be, but Jack began to get the feeling he was getting under foot.

He couldn't say it wasn't a little disheartening, if he was honest with himself. The older Guardians had been a team for so long that they could easily go years, even decades without visiting with one another, and never notice the passing time. They'd gotten better about it since Jack signed up, but...

Jack still had trouble not thinking that sooner or later he'd be forgotten again, and that his presence was more irritant than welcome addition to the group.  
As the northern summer months crept toward autumn, Jack began spending more and more time away from the Pole, tracking the progress of the cold down through Alaska, Canada, Siberia, and Greenland. Eager for the promised day when he could finally go _home_.

There were still leaves on the trees in Burgess when Jack drew his own fern-like curls on the windows of the Bennett residence. The day would still be too warm for it, but in the early hours of the morning he could leave his first hellos.

It was a little cruel. He'd come on a school day, which would leave Jamie and Sophie antsy through their classes until the dark of evening and the return of chillier winds. He'd also have to sit that time out for himself, probably goofing off alone on Mt Davis. But Jack couldn't help himself. It felt like he had to push back his first visit again and again every year.

To his delighted surprise, before he could swoop off to frost the garden, the window clicked open, and Jamie stood grinning sleepily beyond. He'd been able to sneak up, using Jack's own semi-opaque patterns for cover.

They called each other's names in greeting, and a heartbeat later had embraced over the window ledge. Every year Jack held his breath for this. Jamie was officially a _teenager_. Had been for three years. He could still fall under the protection of the Guardians, so long as he believed, but the others had warned Jack, gradually, gently, that even those who'd had proof sometimes stopped believing.

Jack couldn't imagine Jamie Bennett ever being one of those kids, not in his heart of hearts, but three centuries of loneliness could be hard to shake. It was a little easier once the hug had turned into helping him through the window entirely.

"How'd you even know I was there? You sure didn't stay up waiting," Jack ruffled Jamie's bedraggled hair, smirking as the kid pushed his own hand through it self-consciously afterward, only to find it frosted in place. Jamie laughed then and scruffed it out, pointing back to a small patch stuck to the inside of the window, trailing wires.

"Thermo-sensor. I built it, and stuck it there as soon as the forecast started dipping to your range. See? The readings feed back to my computer, and when they drop fast enough it sends a signal to my phone, and an alarm goes off!" He held up a smartphone for Jack to see, grinning proudly, and indeed, an alarm had been hastily snoozed, timer counting down. The label proclaimed in all-caps and surrounded by snowflake emoji, "JACK'S BACK!!"

"That's so cool! Hey, wait a minute..." Jack squinted at the phone's illustrated wallpaper, just before it vanished to a blank, black screen. "Was that... me?"  
"Oh, yeah!" Jamie grinned even wider, positively beaming. "I can't wait to show you! Come here. I've been working on this all summer."

He spun around to a computer desk that Jack now saw was absolutely littered with drawings. All over the walls, illustrations were pinned up, some just vague studies of people and positions, others full-colour renditions of various subjects, from family and friends, to comic book super heroes, to Jack and the Guardians. His attention lingered on these as Jamie fired up his tablet, noting with extreme nostalgia that centered in it all, holding pride of place, was a much less sophisticated drawing in crayon. In it a boy jumped a sled, surrounded by his cheering friends. The first time Jack had seen it, only the boy and his sled had been depicted sailing through the air, but not long after it had been amended to include a pale-haired young man, sporting a blue hoodie and a shepherd's staff, snow drifting about him.

"Okay, check this out," Jamie rolled his desk chair aside, so Jack could get a better look at the screen over his shoulder. A website appeared, simple, but not inelegant, laid out in deep, wintry blues and frosty whites, decorated with wind-swirls and ice crystals. The header read, "The Real Adventures of Jack Frost and the Guardians." Just beneath a smaller title ran, "Jack Frost and the Runaway Sled."

"It's a web comic," Jamie explained, poking his finger against the screen to scroll onto the first panels. "I was thinking about how some people kind of know your name, but not who you really are. You've been a legend around Burgess, ever since that Easter, but what if _more_ kids knew? Kids all over! No better way to spread a story than online."

Jack didn't know what to say, stunned. Jamie's drawings were made of simple, thoughtful lines, just enough to give definition to richly shaded blocks of colour. He could feel instantly the possibility of appeal to both children and a somewhat older audience. Not every illustration was perfect, executed by a still young hand, but it was apparent, Jamie had been learning, practicing. Even as he scrolled through a few months of effort, the improvement was already evident.

After the "Runaway Sled" came "The Great Tooth Race", a longer endeavor that Jamie had been updating weekly, and was almost at its end. The website promised future installments, already titled, "The End of Dreams", ouch. "The Year Without Easter", ouch again. And "The Nightmare Ends".

Jack shook his head in amazement, recognizing in the titles the recent history of how he'd become a Guardian, how he'd met Jamie and found his first believer. He had regaled the boy with the whole story later, after the fact, so Jamie would know why he had been singled out, why it had all happened here in Burgess. He never imagined Jamie would pass that story on to anyone but his own children one day.

"This... This is amazing..." Jack breathed, a giddy feeling in his chest. "People see this? They've read it?"

"Oh, yeah!" Jamie absolutely beamed. "Thousands of people, already! Look, I get messages about it all the time."

He minimized the webpage and tapped a bluish icon on the desktop, which also sported an illustrated wallpaper, this one of all the Guardians. Jamie poked around a little until the screen filled with boxes of text, almost every one related to the web comic, almost every one gushingly enthusiastic. "There are LOTS of kids hoping for some really epic snow days this year. Oh! Right!"

He leapt up again, the chair half spinning, smartphone in hand again. "I promised to take a picture of your first frost!"

He laughed and winked, scouting the window for the best angle. Morning light had just crested, turning the crystalline swirls into brushstrokes of chilly lavender and honey gold. Jack watched him, feeling as though the light mirrored the warmth that flooded through him. Sure, most the people who read the stories would just chalk them up as whimsy from some kid's overactive imagination, but it was a generous and unlooked for start. He already knew Jamie wouldn't play him off as fiction to try to seem cool. He wouldn't have started this, otherwise. Jamie just wasn't that kind of kid.

"Here, I've got something for you, too," Jamie came back, stowing the phone in the pocket of his pyjama pants. He reached up to the pin board, taking down a small plastic trinket on a braided turquoise string. "A fan in Hokkaido sent it to me. I thought you could show Bunny, get a rise outta him."

Jack found himself looking at another cartoon drawing of himself, this version far more short and rounded than Jamie's true-to-life lankiness. It reminded him very much of the painted doll North had made of him, complete with sparkling, mischievous eyes and impish grin. He wasn't sure if the shock Bunny would show at Jack having a fan would be worth the ribbing for the adorable rendering of the trinket.

"She _really_ likes you," Jamie grinned. "Some of the other drawings on her blog..." Suddenly he was blushing, flustered greatly.

"What?" Jack tilted his head, the call for awkwardness going right over it. Jamie waved it off quickly as a second, more standard sort of alarm blared from the clock beside his bed. _'Saved by the bell,'_ Jack reflected, remembering again that this was, in fact, not a weekend, or holiday.

"I gotta get ready," Jamie groaned, looking at Jack as though he'd prefer to do anything but, once the quiet had been restored.

Jack held up his hands, helplessly, in spite of feeling much the same. "Snow days are a no-can-do until it's sticking to the ground. I don't command all of winter's weather after all. Especially when it's still autumn!"

"You'll come back tonight? Sophie will pout if she doesn't get to see you."

Jack chuckled as Jamie played his own eagerness off on his little sister, nodding firmly anyway, and not making too much of a thing about it. "Say hey to the gang for me, y'know, if they still..."

Jamie's smile was all patience and warm reassurance, returning Jack's affirming nod to him. "They do."

That warm flood and giddy flutter moved through Jack again, sticking with him as he sailed out into the dawn. It may have been an uncertain summer, but it felt like nothing could dampen his spirits any more, not now that Jack was home.

\---

The feeling lingered through the end of autumn. It wasn't until the snow was finally beginning to stick, when kids were starting to think up costumes for their Halloween trick-or-treating, nylon ghosts and plastic skeletons littering yards swathed in cobwebs, that Jack turned his thoughts back to Pitch.

Jamie was putting the finishing touches on a page for "The End of Dreams", and Jack found himself looking over the kid's shoulder as he worked on it, outside in the schoolyard, during his lunch. He'd gotten Jack to give him a refresher on the events of that battle, and the comic had suddenly taken a dark and dramatic turn, compared to the light-hearted fare of the first two stories.

Jack worried the people reading wouldn't like how things were going, that they'd be upset with Jack and his impulsiveness. But Jamie had left out a key aspect to the true story, and purposefully. He had not included Jack's lost memories.

The reason, he explained, was twofold. First, it did actually make Jack look self-serving, and Jamie's aim was to introduce the best of Jack Frost to people who didn't know him, not defend a slip in judgement to the often shark-infested waters of the Internet. Secondly, amnesia plot lines had been done to _death_. Jack's story would probably sound _less_ fictitious without it.

At the time Jack had laughed. Now he was looking at Pitch, glaring up off of Jamie's screen, all predatory golden eyes and waves of malice. The soles of his feet began to itch, realising it had been far too long since he'd at least looked in on North. He didn't even know if Pitch was still unconscious.

For the first time in ever, Jack felt relief as the bell rang. He ruffled frost in Jamie's hair again as he said his farewells, missing out on what would have been gratifying chuckles from nearby students, who likely saw it as a freak, inconvenient gust of wind. Instead he focused on altitude, shooting for those air streams that moved him round the globe, more swiftly than any bird, any storm, and any craft made by man.

The Pole had become an absolute madhouse. Two months before Christmas was apparently _no_ time to try getting hold of St. Nick. The idea that even a single shopping mall could have gotten North to make a personal appearance any later than Valentine's Day was actually pretty delusional, now that Jack was looking at the full-tilt insanity of it. The Yeti had nearly refused to even let Jack through the door, until he'd relented on actually seeing the big man in red and exclaimed, "I'm just here to check Pitch!"

This turned out to be a fast pass through what might have otherwise been an unnavigable kaleidoscope of noise and colour, Yeti and elves stampeding back and forth and up and down across the levels, checking and double checking absolutely _everything_.

No one here had time to be looking after an inconveniently installed Boogeyman, especially given how deeply he'd been tucked away in the lower levels of the Workshop stores.

In the flurry of activity, Jack found himself distractedly checking off some unread receipt on a clipboard, before he was unceremoniously shoved down the entry to an empty hall, left to his own devices by the too-busy-to-be-bothered-with-you-any-more Phil.

After the cacophony of the Workshop, Jack could _hear_ the silence of the passageway. The air here was still, without being stale, earthy, and just on the pleasant side of chilly. Jack had a hard time convincing himself that the door at the far end concealed and contained one of the world's greatest threats of evil.

Jack approached with an apprehension masked by determination. Staff still held close, he rapped his knuckles against the wood, and steeled himself against the potential caustic retort. More of that soft, drowsy silence replied, and at last Jack reached down to the latch, and let himself inside.

His first impression was not of rooms meant for any sort of storage. Only the height of the ceilings hung overhead may have given it away, but the exposed rafters, and the leaded crystal, snowflake window set into the door showed more design care than generally went toward warehousing supplies. But then, this was the Pole. The Workshop had not been a rush job for the sake of efficiency, but a labour of love, even the most humble aspects evoking at least a little wonder.

Hand-woven rugs covered the rustic wooden floors, rough boards worn smooth by time. A sitting area had been made up with squashy arm chairs, even a fluffy poof. A writing desk, already stocked. A bookcase, empty and waiting to be populated, should one choose. Somehow there was a hearth down here, and a fire in the grate, which one could put a kettle on, tins of tea in many flavours set along the homey mantle. A carved-wood screen with painted forest scenery separated this living area from what must be the 'bedroom', and Jack found himself moving around it cautiously.

More rugs on the floor, more warm, craftsman furniture, and Pitch, laid out beneath a quilt, an ashen smudge against the hues of evergreen and cranberry.  
He looked like he'd been composed upon the bed, and had not shifted more than a hair's breadth or two since then. Jack could see the glint of golden sutchers still embedded in his temple. Had North simply forgotten, once Pitch had been safely stowed away for long enough? That was not the fastidious tinkerer with which Jack had become acquainted. The man could think of a score of new ideas every minute, but once he began something, North would follow a task or project through to the end.

Perhaps, being that he was not a mortal man, with no need for sleep and food and drink, Pitch was merely so diminished that his wounds had not yet mended. Jack edged forward, practically tiptoeing to the armchair installed near the head of the bed. A North-sized piece of furniture, Jack felt a bit like a child once he'd settled into it.

He pulled his feet up on the seat, wrapped his arms around his knees, and watched the sleeping Boogeyman from over top of them.

Pitch's features were not serene. Though less tormented than when Jack had come upon him in the Lair, tension remained in the smooth, high brow. Shadows deep as bruises still blotted around his deep-set eyes. His thin, often cruel mouth seemed pressed. Jack suspected Pitch ground his teeth at least sometimes. Tooth would have had a fit.

"Can't be much fear at the Pole," Jack murmured the thought, as though striking up a conversation and trying not to wake his charge at the same instant, "even with you around. The Yeti are too big, and too busy. The elves have probably forgotten you're even here by now. Must be hard to bounce back, when the only one afraid is still you. ...What on Earth did those Nightmares have on you?"

Pitch remained stubbornly still and silent, just an impossibly long figure and impressive cheekbones offered in reply.

Jack found himself thinking on the first time he'd ever laid eyes on Pitch, just outside of Boston. Jack had been annoying the Leprechaun for the hell of it, because the surly little ginger could see him, but had such a belligerent distaste himself for being _seen_. Jack had lost track of him when the rain clouds had taken a turn towards storm, rainbow vanishing into threatening, leaden grey.

Thunder rolled in the center of the pressure system, an ominous rotation to the clouds. At one point lightning flashed and revealed a towering figure, standing boldly in the open, looking eager for the storm. As thunder growled not long after, the aspect most striking to Jack was that the jagged bolt hadn't really illuminated him. The blackness of his coat had been like an absence of the light against the hillside's windswept grass.

Curiosity had drawn Jack near, until he'd perched himself upon a branch not far off but well overhead. Then the figure had turned and _looked_ at him. He'd been caught in the lamp-like, wolfish glare, felt the hunger in those eyes that had sent him leaping back onto turbulent winds, just to escape the gaze. It was the first time in a quarter century Jack _hadn't_ wished to be noticed.

He'd flown swiftly from the heart of the storm, not stopping again until he'd reached the fringes, still misting gentle showers. After a while spring sunshine cut through, and Jack found himself lucky enough to have landed at the foot of the rainbow.

The Leprechaun looked very annoyed, but he'd just settled down and lit a pipe and didn't seem inclined to go scampering off just yet. It may have helped that Jack kept staring off in the direction he'd left the stranger behind, no longer so interested in ogling the little man before him.

"Did you see that guy?" Jack breathed, a puff of mist in the shifting colours of the air. "That... That wasn't _human_."

The Leprechaun tsked disapprovingly, likely at Jack's spring green ignorance. "Pitch Black, the Boogeyman. Don't pay him any mind."

"The _Boogeyman_? Seriously?" He got another tsk for his thick incredulity.

"Aye, that's right," the little ginger trilled his R, and blew a leisurely smoke ring. Jack kept quiet for a moment whilst the other smoked, and was, after a fashion, rewarded for his patience. "He's naught but a shadow these days, no harm to anyone, and we're all the better for it. But pay him any attention and you'll never get rid of him. Quite like yourself, laddie."

Jack got a smug wink in return for his scowl, and a thicket clearing all to himself. He'd stuck to sleeping in very high trees, when he'd bothered to sleep at all, for a time after that. Those eyes hadn't felt like they meant no harm. But maybe Jack needn't have bothered. It had been a very long time before he'd seen Pitch Black again.

Jack shivered at the memory now, coming forward from his reverie at the sound of a deep, slow sigh from Pitch. He eyed the man on the bed with suspicion, expecting at any moment to see a sliver of pyrite gold beneath the sooty line of eyelid. Any second the ruse could be up (though rationality reminded Jack that five months was a very, very long time to wait with nothing at all to pass it.)

Nothing followed the deep breath, but Jack thought perhaps Pitch's jaw had relaxed.

"Oh, great," he scowled darkly at the Boogeyman, dropping his knees apart to catch in the bends of his elbows, fingers threaded around his staff to support the whole loose configuration of limbs. "It's gonna be like that, is it? _Fine_. No skin off my back, I guess."

Jack heaved his own rough sigh and began picking back through memory. He wasn't the type to acknowledge his own fears, in spite (and perhaps because) of how numerous they really were. The idea of deliberately recalling any of the first few that leapt to mind, and in vivid detail, didn't lend him any enthusiasm for what he'd decided to try.

He settled on another early memory. Another storm. He'd spent the day near an ice skating pond that he'd really put the works into, decking out the fir trees in thick, soft clumps of snow, hanging icicles from the bare, silvery branches of all the rest. Everything glittered with a filigree of diamond-like frost. A real, magical, Winter Wonderland. All the holidaymakers had _loved_ it, and he'd felt so proud.

He'd been playing the little game that always got him in trouble, pretending to be part of conversations, making the sort of remarks and observations that didn't require verbal response. He kidded to himself that any silences after were comfortable. Natural and easy, like old friendships. If someone spoke over him, it was surely just enthusiasm carrying them away, forgetting formal manners. Jack was an easygoing guy. He didn't mind it.

But he'd made the mistake of joining them on the ice. Of not paying enough attention as the pond began to crowd. At one point several bodies had raced through him in succession, and to make matters worse, they did it tumbling to the ice in a giddy pile of embarrassed laughter. Jack still standing, unacknowledged, and un-bowled-over, in the middle of it all.

He'd leapt on the wind and flown off, not paying the direction any mind, not realising as he left the Atlantic coast far behind him, and before he'd known it, got caught up in a winter squall.

This was the part of the memory he focused on. Blinded by tears and frustration already, he'd played into the hands of winds that would not obey him, and had no interest in making friends. They tossed him about like a rag doll in the mouth of dogs, tearing at his cape, and buffeting him to and fro, deeper into the inky turmoil.

It grew impossible to see for all the blackness, and Jack had often not known if he was facing up or down, the force of the winds removing all sense of gravity. Lightning flashes in the clouds would orient him from time to time, and then he would see monstrous waves with abyssmal troughs. They seemed to reach their crests toward him, like hands grasping, hoping to drag him beneath the waters, to drown him utterly.

Terror deeper than Jack knew he could feel had gripped him at that thought: drowning, frozen and alone, in the crushing blackness of those waves.

In the safe reality of the furnished storeroom, Jack let himself linger on those images of uncertain death for longer than he'd genuinely lived them. Eventually some friendlier wind had taken pity on him, tossed him high enough that he could get traction in the clouds, and make his escape above the storm. Here at the Pole, he dissected each heart-hammering second of the gale, until he could feel the heavy pounding move, climbing from his chest toward his head. Then Jack let go of it, and looked up, tentatively.

Pitch's whole expression had changed. It was a mask of ease, of feline contentment, frankly. Jack found himself perfectly annoyed that his suspicion proved right. Pitch was fear-starved, and the North Pole, though sheltering, wasn't doing him any other favours.

Jack groaned, letting his hands unclasp, and slouched into the armchair, sulking. "Vampire," he accused, venomless, and sighed at how exhausting it had been to hold himself in that moment of fear. Pitch made no answer. _Ungrateful_ vampire.

It was tempting to cat nap in the armchair. It was huge and soft and the heat from the fire beyond the wooden screen made Jack feel drowsy anyway. He could just recharge his batteries right here, and keep an eye out for any further affects on Pitch when he woke up. The second thought of Pitch perhaps waking _before_ Jack got his feet on the carpet though. That face might look innocuous enough now, but Jack reminded himself not to be lulled into a false sense of security. Pitch had tried that one on him before.

He was questioning already what fear he'd fed to Pitch, and whether or not he would, and even if he should, come back and do it again. Wouldn't it be easier, just to keep him here, like this? He wished he could go up to the Workshop, share his discovery and it's difficulties with North, but it would be another two months before he could even consider it. In the meanwhile, Jack was on his own with this.

He took a last glance back at the Boogeyman, before he rounded the screen. It wasn't fair that pure evil could look so harmless, so vulnerable, lying there like that. Jack wished for a moment that the surface would reflect what lurked beneath the skin, and swifter than he could think it through, quashed down the thought, _'what if it already did?'_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIVE!! I've recently felt in the mood to continue this, and considering I managed to extract all the pre-writing I did from the old laptop I don't use any more, that's infinitely more possible. There's at least a few chapters worth already typed up, and a fair amount of advance plotting toward the end game. Some of it I've re-read and don't like though... gonna have to work those bits over again... Still, comments and reviews are love! Cheers!

Toothiana was the first to catch sight of the Nightmares at large. Jack wasn't sure why it surprised him to hear it. They could move through the same shadows Pitch had, and just because they'd made it nigh impossible for Jack to get  _ in _ to the Lair didn't make it impossible for dark things to get  _ out _ . 

The fairy's first suspicion had been that Pitch was rallying already, a shocking idea, given the nearly five hundred years between his most recent rise and his previous crushing fall. Jack had bit the inside of his cheek and said, "You can _ not _ tell Bunny this."

Tooth's reaction was far nearer Jack's expectations than North's had been. "You went down there?! Alone?!  _ Again?! _ "

He ducked out of the way, just before her small fist could come down and emphasize that she obviously thought him a knucklehead. "Sorry! Hey, I'm still getting used to this whole 'teamwork' thing. Plus, I... kinda had to nick a couple Snow Globes to even reach the Lair. Didn't want to make one of you guys a criminal accessory."

He smiled helplessly as Tooth rolled her eyes, flitting away to collect another tooth. She reappeared on the far side of the building and the two of them coasted over rooftops on gentle breezes together, threads of Dream Sand overhead. They cast Tooth's iridescent feathers in honey golden light as she inspected the tooth in hand, clucking her tongue, "Right pre-molar, two fillings already," before coming back to the matter at hand. 

"That was still reckless, Jack. You could have been trapped, even killed," the concern in her voice touched Jack unexpectedly, the undertone of disappointment tugging on his guilt. It was still confusing, how feeling valued and wanted, things he'd yearned for his whole life, could actually hurt, now and then.

"Yeah, I'm sorry... But hey! I'm fine, right? Lesson  _ not _ learned the hard way."

Tooth eyed him sidelong, a hint of a repressed smile sneaking onto her lips. "I just hope it still  _ was learned _ , Jack." 

She waited for his chided nod, then dived down again, reappearing with her prize the next minute. Tooth collection turned out to be much more leisurely, when the Baby Tooths were out in force, handling the bulk of it.

"So the Nightmares really did turn on Pitch. You know, a big part of me thought it was all a ploy," Tooth's voice had turned a bit soft. A little sad. "He didn't have the numbers for a last stand, so he cut his losses and ran, taking what he could before we dispatched the rest of his Nightmares. Bunny and I have talked about it. It seemed so likely at the time."

Jack nodded, seeing the sense in assumptions like that. If he'd been as familiar with fighting the Boogeyman as the rest of the Guardians, Jack might have come to the same conclusion. But the rest of the Guardians weren't as familiar as Jack with  _ living _ like Pitch. The sound he'd made when Jamie,  _ Jamie _ of all children, had run right through him...

It was hard to get thoughts reorganized after moments like that, and impossible to cover raw emotions ripped open by the invasive, self-erasing sensation. Jack was still slightly abashed that he'd smiled when he'd realised the Nightmares had picked up on that.

"The Nightmares smell fear, I'm betting they feed on it, too. Seems like they were content to make a meal out of Pitch while they had him, and maybe it lasted them a while, even after," Jack flew with hands shoved in his pockets, guilt creeping up again as he considered that the Nightmares might have been let loose by his actions. Tooth reached out, gave him a quick reassuring pat on the shoulder, whizzed off and was back again in a flash. Each run to collect a tooth barely made for a notable pause in conversation.

"Bad dreams happen, even without Pitch helping them along," Tooth bolstered, reading Jack's insecurities, "Even without embodied Nightmares. We just have to keep our eyes out. Nip this in the bud! I mean, how much trouble can a few feral strays really be, after what we've taken on?" 

She pounded her fist lightly against the crook of his staff. Jack grinned in return. 

"We'll have to tell Bunny eventually though, you know that, Jack. And he doesn't take kindly to being the last one in on things, especially when they're important," she looked thoughtful as Jack cringed, shrugged her plumed shoulders, and took the bullet for him. "I suppose I can stop by the Warren. Break the news our theory's wrong. He is going to lay an egg, know what I mean? But it might make it easier on the both of you, if he has a little time to cool his heels."

Relief flooded Jack's whole being again. He swooped in for a hug, and Tooth embraced him fondly, even if her smile afterward was a bit exasperated. "And I'll fill in Sandy, just as soon as it's sundown in Burgess. I've got a sledding date in a couple hours with Jamie and Sophie. Who knows, Tooth? Soph's at that age; I might see you again, sooner than you think!"

She threw him a reproving smile as he zipped away, off to make sure the hillsides were in supreme condition.

~***~

The sledding was excellent. The hill at Sophie's primary school was long, and just steep enough to really build some speed, especially if there was a winter spirit handy to make the slope just a little bit icy, and build fluffy piles at the bottom to wipe out in. 

Parents sat on benches under the awning of a covered walkway, chatting among themselves and sipping steaming travel mugs of coffee, while they kept an eye on their more energetic little ones. It was the perfect distance that Jack could actually talk with the kids, and not draw bewildered grown-up attention. 

Jamie was right about Jack being a local legend in the town though, and parents were getting used to the quirk of a communal imaginary friend. He kept at least a dozen toboggans, air tyres, and plastic discs rocketing down the hill for  _ hours _ , until at last the sleepy, early-evening sun began to dip behind the treeline. Parents began coaxing their ruddy-faced children back to the warmth of station wagons and crossovers, the promise of hot cocoa and noodle soups a siren song to chilly feet and fingers. 

Jack watched them go, a warm contentment in his icy breast, waving his best pair off to their own toasty evening activities, fondly. 

He walked the power lines over the town tonight, a familiar pastime with brand new feeling to it. No longer the pensive, solitary trudge of old, it was time alone that he used to reflect, to appreciate how different everything was, now to then. Sometimes he still even rambled to the Moon, if the Guy in the Sky hadn't been out, a pale ivory disc in the azure skies, like today.

Manny never answered back, and Jack had come to learn that communique with him was rare and often vague, even for the older Guardians. North supposed it must take great strength, to make himself heard across such distances, and any way about it, Jack no longer took it personally. He'd stopped regarding the Moon as an absentee father figure. He thought of him now as an eccentric mentor, cooped up with his own intricate and indecipherable projects, who couldn't remember his own office hours most of the time. Still, he knew Manny watched them and watched over them, trusting the Guardians to be capable. Trusting Jack as one of them.

He took to the air at the first whisps of Dream Sand, following the graceful ribbons back to the nebulous cloud island. There stood Sandy in the midst, the tiny conductor of a grand, visual orchestra. He waved brightly as Jack approached, patting the sand invitingly. Jack plopped down cross-legged and drew a finger through the velvety granules, motes of it whisping into the air and settling.

" ❄? " The symbols appeared over Sandy's head, simple, and yet as always, so full of potential meaning. The flake usually stood in for Jack himself, just as a tooth, carrot, and candy cane tended to refer to the Guardian associated, but it was just as easy that Sandy was asking how Jack's winter was going, or if he'd planned any snow days. It took a bit of intuition, reading tone in Sandy's posture and expression, but Jack felt like he was getting better with every conversation.

"I'm good, Sandman, major fun today. How 'bout you?"

Sandy smiled widely at the answer, and offered a heartfelt thumbs up. He sent a few more streams of Dream Sand swirling off through the chilly air, then looked back to Jack in askance. Clearly he'd divined this wasn't just a social call.

"So... The Nightmares are running loose again," Jack lead with that, watching Sandy's reaction. He looked greatly annoyed at the news, huffing softly, glittery specks in the breath. There was also a note of resignation about him.

" ⏰ " Only a matter of time.

The next symbol to appear was an unmistakable silhouette followed by another interrogative. Apparently it was difficult to summarize Pitch, and only his angular outline would do.

Jack scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly, still trying to come up with a way to spin things that might spare him a furious Sand lecture. The flurry of symbols could get overwhelming when Sandy was cross.

"He's... Actually not a concern, this time around," Jack offered a tentative smile, Sandy's foot tapping, another snowflake forming sharply overhead.

Jack deflated, folding forward over his lap, giving it up as a bad job. He could brush off a lot as no big deal, but even Jack had to admit it was a heavy thing, harbouring the Boogeyman. Heavy enough that it had taken all of thirty seconds and a stern look to break him.

Bent forward and looking down at the swirling patterns before him, Jack tried instead to compose words to explain properly to Sandy. He knew the dynamic was different between Sandy and Pitch, the light and dark side of dreams. He thought maybe he'd betrayed the Sandman worst of all the Guardians, getting Pitch out, extracting him from due punishment. Pitch had corrupted the stuff of Sandy's very center. He'd  _ killed _ the little man, or something like it, though thankfully only temporarily.

"You should have seen him, Sandy. What the Nightmares were doing to him. I've never heard someone scream like that. Ever," he pushed back up, onto the heels of his hands. His mind's eye cast back to the Lair, a thousand-mile stare, to its engulfing darkness. "North saw what a wreck they'd left him, and I told Tooth about it, but that wasn't the worst of it, not by far. He was _scared_ , Sandy, so scared. They'd been at him for  _ years _ and didn't seem the least bit bored. And Pitch seemed so  _ raw _ to it. It was unbelievable. I could  _ taste _ it, like acid in my throat."

Jack looked up, a lost expression, frighted by the implications. "What could possibly terrify Pitch Black?"

Sandy regarded him gently, after a moment shaking his golden head. He sat down then, opposite Jack, and picked up one of the young man's hands in his own tiny grasp. He patted the back of Jack's wrist, feeling warm and comforting as sunshine on tilled earth, a reassuring expression to match.

He waited patiently for Jack to settle, no more pressing symbols, and at length Jack sighed, the deep breath nearly a yawn as he was lulled by the warmth and safety and comfort all around him. The memory of the Lair faded. Jack put from his mind Pitch's agonized screaming.

"He's at the Pole now, anyway. Unconscious. As of the last time I checked in at least. North is pretty confident he's stuck there, if Pitch happens to wake up in a mood for trouble. Something to do with the lead manacles the Nightmares clapped on him."

Sandy nodded at that, patting Jack's hand again. If he was angry at all he didn't seem inclined to take it out on Jack. Uncertainty gnawed, a little worm diligently chewing away at the scar tissue on Jack's heart, fear rising that despite the calm and understanding surface, Sandy would still be disappointed in him. Think he'd mucked everything up again. Jack pulled his hands back and found the staff rested across his lap, fingers tightening around the rough bark like a security blanket.

"You're not mad...?"

Another warm smile as Sandy rubbed his own hands together vigorously and shook his head. The symbols went off on a little tangent that Jack couldn't really follow, but the swiftly shifting Sand didn't seem at all agitated. Sandy was just trying to express thoughts too abstract to pictograph clearly, and all Jack could actually read of them was his own snowflake and Pitch's silhouette.

Jack squirmed uncomfortably and Sandy stopped abruptly, realising he'd gone well over Jack's head.

"I don't understand... But I'm glad you can talk about it, y'know? About Pitch. After what he did."

He'd always wondered what it had been like for Sandy, consumed by the Nightmare Sand. Jack figured it was impertinent to ask though, and doubted the mute dream-maker could articulate it in symbols Jack would follow readily.

As though coming to the same conclusion, Sandy did little more than nod in agreement. Then up popped North's candy cane, and a smile of great fondness.

"Yeah, I've gone to talk with him a lot, too. He's gonna start billing us hourly."

That comment seemed to perplex Sandy, and Jack reminded himself that the Sandman, for all his travels, didn't interact at all with either the grown-up or the waking world, and was likely far too old to have heard about professional therapy. Jack chuckled, for once the one in the know and an idea lost on Sandy. "Point to me."

The Sandman huffed, crossing his arms, and Jack couldn't help but laugh.

At some point Sandy took up his nocturnal orchestration again, and Jack, already drowsy and half-hypnotized by the shifting patterns of gold against a blue velvet sky, nodded off entirely. He awoke from indistinct, but remarkably good dreams on a soft heap of snow, high on the roof of a church bell tower. The sun sparkled on the powder, just over the horizon, continuing the pleasant feelings still lingering sweetly in the background of his mind. 

Jack never chased the vestiges of good dreams any more. Whenever he had tried, it always turned him sad, as they often featured things he could never have. It was a bit of a shame, really, since some of those good things  _ had _ been obtained at long last, and it would have been nice to remember what dreaming had woven those into. But there were still others far out of reach. Better not to risk it. 

Sight of the church marquee reminded Jack that Christmas was coming up fast. Only a scant few days away, if that, at best. This was the time for Jack Frost to earn his stripes on the holiday side of Guardianship. Snow days and sledding were all grand fun, but even before he'd joined the ranks, nothing got him in trouble with Nicolas St. North faster and deeper than a green Christmas. Thank goodness he wasn't the type to hold a grudge, unlike a certain six-foot rabbit.

This year had likely been the most stressful lead-up in recent Workshop history. Jack couldn't imagine a better apology and show of gratitude than to blanket as much of the Northern hemisphere as he possibly could in drifts of picturesque, Grade-A, packing snow. There'd be veritable armies of snowmen decorating yards for North to admire, once the children got their mittens on it.

Humming carols to himself, Jack got to work immediately.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting into the good stuff!! >:D I've been waiting to publish this chapter since I started this thing, nearly two years ago! Mwahahaha...

After the Easter of Twenty-Twelve the Guardians began a new tradition. On New Year’s Eve, once all of North's holiday responsibilities had been discharged, and he'd had a well deserved rest, everyone would gather at the Pole for their own celebration.

The Battle of Burgess had shown them that although they _could_ go years without looking in on each other at all, it was actually quite a shame. For all they each loved their own, and one another's work, they'd perhaps not done as much as they should to cherish that.

The New Year party was always exceptionally boisterous, joined in as it was by a Workshop full of elated Yeti, and run amok with eggnog-addled elves. North put on a feast of holiday dishes from around the world, a splendid meal spent telling stories of exploits and adventures from the previous year, and sometimes, for Jack's benefit, centuries. Afterward the whole thing would move upstairs to the Globe observation deck. Spirits would flow and music would fill the air, usually leading to some very silly party games and truly ridiculous antics.

Jack had taken a shine to the hot, spiced wine, feeling warmer at the core of himself than he had for a very, very long time. Sandy had been putting away little egg-shaped cups of eggnog as though he thought North might possibly run out. Jack had no idea what Tooth had been drinking, but she was, at present, slow dancing to a Sinatra Christmas carol with a Yeti aptly named Frank. Several of her attendant fairies had partnered with some of the less inebriated elves.

North and Bunny had gotten into a drinking contest with something that smelled strongly of black licorice. If the warmth and camaraderie of the earlier evening hadn't lulled Jack into feelings of utter contentment, he might have recognized this as a very poor choice of activities. The drink wasn't likely going to mix well with the spiced cider Bunny had been at beforehand, and perhaps the rabbit's heels hadn't cooled as much as he'd led on at the start of the evening.

"So, your new lodger never showed. I been waitin' all night. Too shy? Or still downstairs playin' Sleeping Beauty?"

North coughed on the contents of his shot glass, glaring across the table at Bunny for the cheat. The atmosphere immediately began to shift, and Jack felt as though the whole floor had tilted with it. Some unspoken rule of the evening had just been broken.

"Hey, maybe that's it!" Bunny rolled right over the awkwardness with a thick layer of false levity, "Maybe he just needs a little peck to get 'im on his feet again. Jackieboy could do the honours, for the New Year!"

"Bunny!" Tooth's voice landed somewhere between a squeak and a hiss.

"I mean, he's the one who decided to go off and play White Knight and all. If you can call it that, 'rescuing' a blackguard like Pitch," Bunny leaned back with feigned nonchalance, and nearly lost his chair. It looked like his teeth knocked when he came back down, but he was up on his feet a heartbeat after, stepping with too little sway for Jack's liking, and in his direction.

"Look, Bunny, I didn't _plan_ this, I just wanted to make sure he wasn't up to anything!"

"Up to anything?! He's the bleedin' _Boogeyman_! He's always up to something! Except when he's too busy looking after his own worthless skin! We _told_ you! But, nah, mate, Jack Frost knows better. No reason to listen to the fellas who've been fightin' him an' his Shadows for more than a thousand years!"

"Bunny, Jack is not knowing whole history, and even _you_ would not have left Pitch in the condi-"

"Oh, lay off it, North!" Bunny threw off the heavy hand that had settled on one furry shoulder, spinning and jabbing a clawed toe at the Cossack's chest. "There's only _one_ reason I don't just bury a boomerang in that reptile's brains, and you know it."

North rumbled an inarticulate sound, hands settling crossly on his hips. Sandy was in the air, comically, and perhaps a little inappropriately, trying to play referee just off to one side. Both patently ignored his calls for a time-out. Jack kept his mouth shut, having no good excuse to interject after an ominous statement like that.

Tooth disentangled herself from her dance partner, waving Jack away with understated gestures as she fluttered in toward the snarling, six-foot rabbit. "Bunny, it's not like that any more. You know it isn't. It's just Pitch now. It's only Pitch."

Bunny let her sooth him for a moment, looking like the liquor was really starting to hit him, now that his blood was up. His ears hung, the skin inside bright red, and his whiskers drooped with some emotion or memory beyond Jack's experience.

"Yes, he's a pain," Tooth continued to coo, "but he's not-"

With that he snatched his paw back and briskly shook his head.

"But he bloody went and started peeling the Shadows off one by one, didn't he? That's what those Nightmares really are, _aren't_ they? He _can't_ keep them in line, no matter what he says; he _never_. _could._ " He sniffled wetly, pawing roughly at his muzzle, before picking up his head to fix a glare on Jack.

"And now those monsters are back on the loose, and _you_ helped them! Again! Crikey! You're supposed to be a _Guardian_ , Jack!"

"Bunny!!"

Jack slipped on the railing he'd balanced on, feeling as though the rabbit had just hopped up and kicked him in the ribs. He'd known Bunny wouldn't be happy when he first heard the news, but he'd never expected _this_. It was the Egg Hunt in England all over again. He couldn't get his breath. His heartbeat galloped in his ears, and before he knew it he'd lost his seat completely and tumbled several levels through the Workshop center.

He hit the floor hard, heard voices gasp after him, but didn't look up to meet anyone's eyes. His staff still leaned somewhere up there on the balustrade, and going back up just wasn't an option right now, so Jack scrambled onto his feet and ran.

His legs were on autopilot through the workshop, taking him down the one familiar path he would bet _none of them_ would follow on, still running until the voices died out, until the echos of holiday music gave way to silence.

He plodded unevenly the rest of the distance to the storeroom, pushing the poof against the door once he'd slipped inside. It wouldn't actually do anything, if someone shoved their way in, save make Jack look foolish. He couldn't bring himself to care enough to drag it away again.

Pitch lay as unmoved as ever beneath the bed covers, but Jack only spared him the briefest glance to be sure of it. He remained on the sitting room side of the painted screen, as though that would somehow soften the guilt of running from a fight _about_ Pitch down to him.

Instead of his more familiar perch he climbed up into the armchair on one side of the fire, still merrily burning away, though he couldn't imagine who tended it. Maybe no one needed to. One of North's clever inventions.

Jack cried until he didn't have tears left, until his thoughts and emotions became a loop of recycling doubts and second guessing. He stared at the cheerful flames in misery for a long while after, picking at the sleeves of his sweatshirt for want of his staff to fret with.

"Still harping on about all that? Come on, Frost. Give me something _new_ to play with."

Jack sat bolt upright, scrubbing his sleeve over his face quickly to destroy any evidence of tears. Pitch had leaned up so quietly, balanced back on one arm as he inspected the leaden cuff locked around the other. Jack hadn't even heard the quilts shift.

"What made _you_ decide to join the waking world all of a sudden?" Jack retorted, trying to shove his emotions down, fast. He wasn't in the _mood_ to have Pitch picking through his insecurities, and damnit if that hadn't been the first thing out of the Boogeyman's mouth. Ungrateful boggart. _Why now, of all blasted moments?!_

"Just about time, I suppose. I take it I've been out a while."

"Try seven months." Jack stood up from his new chair, padding around the edge of the screen to get a better look at Pitch. He wanted to know just how spry the Boogeyman might be, if there was good cause to run back to the Workshop and warn-...

Pitch snorted softly. "Hardly a nap then."

"Is that how you passed the time after the Dark Ages? Catching up on your beauty sleep? 'Cause I hate to break it to you if you did..."

"Ahaha," Pitch forced a droll laugh, set his other hand down behind himself, and dragged his long frame back slowly into a more upright position. It looked like it took far more effort than it should, the movements stiff, and as the quilts fell away it was all too easy to see why.

Pitch had been divested of his ruined black cloak, revealing swaths of bruised and bandaged grey skin. Jack would have thought he'd been marked up and rubbed all over with charcoal, if he'd not seen for himself the near-black blood that flowed within. Jack cringed, more of those hoof and bite marks evident around the wrap of bandages and over older scars he'd not bothered imagining. Some of those had definitely come from large claws, and possibly sabers.

"Insults aside, Pitch, you look wrecked." No cause for alarm then. Jack shifted further in, settling himself down on the bedside armchair at last.

"Hmph, you're a little green around the gills yourself. The joys of being a Guardian driving you to drink?"

"Holiday party. Which you managed to crash without even getting up, thanks for that."

"Holiday?" his smooth brow rose, eyes sliding around the room with a look both curious and surprised. "So this is the Pole then."

"What gave it away?" Jack posed the rhetoric with a glance to the colourful, Yuletide motif on the quilt pooled in Pitch's lap.

"The poinsettia on the nightstand. Very unique flower for a sickbed," Pitch quipped back, leaning with a grimace against the headboard. "And I suppose I have you to thank, considering you're here, still fretting away over what the Guardians think of you, rather than enjoying the rest of your Christmas soiree."

"I can dump you back off at the Lair as soon as tomorrow, if you'd prefer," Jack bit out the threat, not entirely sure if it was half empty or full, given his current, less than sober condition, and after everything that had just happened upstairs. "Bet your Nightmares miss their chew toy."

Pitch's mouth pressed into a thin, graphite slash. "I'm sure there are better places in the Workshop to be alone."

"Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd pick today of all days to wake up." But it wasn't so difficult after all to figure out why Pitch had. Under the half-numb surface of the wine Jack's every fear and insecurity was still seething. He could imagine it rolling off himself in waves, crashing right into Pitch, who must be _literally_ eating it up.

"Came to remind yourself there's someone in the world worse off? Schadenfreude is an ugly emotion, Jack," the Boogeyman recovered his smirk, "Trust me."

"No, that's not- I just- Would you just _stop_ talking?" Jack looked away, grasping his head in his hands to push the heels of his palms against his temples. There was definitely an ache brewing already, low grade, that had been threatening behind his eyes since the fight. The serrated wit of Pitch's constant barbs wasn't helping. "I'd have thought your voice was shot, but no, I couldn't be that lucky."

Miraculously, silence reigned. The pulsing in his head subsided back from promise to uneasy possibility, revealing the quiet ticking of the mantle clock, and the low crackling of the log fire. After a few moments of the blessed peace, Jack's heart skipped a beat, and he turned to look quickly, to make sure that Pitch had not, in fact, somehow managed to vanish.

Jack wasn't sure it was relief he felt, meeting those pyrite eyes again. Pitch was watching him steadily, a veiled expression. The Boogeyman likely thought such a look hid his emotions, but Jack found it far more telling than Pitch's usual tactic of feigned amusement. Jack had struck a nerve. Hadn't even been aiming, just mumbling miserably into his lap, and that, whatever it was, had hit home somewhere.

"How much did you hear?"

Jack's stomach dropped and his head suddenly felt very clear. There was danger in those five, quiet words, a rumble of thunder, soft, but right overhead. He caught himself sliding to the far side of the seat on the armchair, ready to launch off it if Pitch suddenly lunged for him.

"N-nothing. I mean, not much. You were screaming, that's all. Raving maybe. It didn't make any sense. Everything was echoing, and the Nightmares were laughing, or something. Do they laugh?" _Please stay in bed. Please stay in bed._

Pitch's eyes bored through him another few, racing heartbeats and Jack wondered desperately if Pitch could sense the half-truth through his fears, read it as easily as he'd done upon waking. Then they slid away. Fell closed even. He looked tired again, reminding Jack that the Boogeyman was still wounded, and even angry, probably not a credible threat.

Whatever rare good sense had kept Jack from mentioning the voice of the little girl seemed to have been the saving grace in that moment. He watched Pitch breathe, a slow, self-collecting rise and fall of his bandaged chest, long neck stretched out, head tilted back and faced partially away. Blank again, and somewhere inside himself, nursing some wound more hurtful than anything inflicted bodily. Jack wondered who she was, why she mattered to Pitch.

In spite of popular opinion, he wasn't nearly stupid enough to ask.

The quiet remained unbroken for a long while after that, settling into what Jack had subconsciously hoped for when he'd first run down here: a private moment to contemplate the Boogeyman.

He didn't make much headway in his thoughts. Looking at Pitch beat up and laid low like this wanted to move a sort of pity inside him, but Bunny's drunken explosion had his mind reaching for revulsion instead. After all, what was sympathy any good for with Pitch? Wouldn't he just use it as an advantage, to drive a wedge between the Guardians, and get a foothold in the world again? It's not like he was apt to suddenly rethink a thousand years of villainy.

A light rapping on the door dragged him back up from a return to drowsing, circular thoughts. Pitch didn't even flinch at the noise, or the scraping of the base of the poof across the floor, as North backed his way in. He had a tea tray in his hands, and Jack's staff tucked against his shoulder, a sight that cheered him more than he'd expected to feel for days after this.

Jack climbed to his feet to help with the burdens, noting now that the tray didn't actually bear any tea. Instead, along with the biscuits, it held a large carafe of clear ice water, the glass sweating with condensation, and a small, angular metal coffee pot, which wafted a very strong, dark aroma.

"Tooth and Sandy are seeing Bunny back to Warren," North's rough voice sounded both tired and apologetic as he laid down the tray upon the coffee table. He straightened with a short succession of popping sounds that made Jack cringe, and finally caught sight of Pitch. His bushy, dark brows rose high over reddened eyes as he glanced back to Jack. "Don't tell me you are taking Bunny's suggestion seriously?"

"What?! No!" Jack spluttered, breath knocked out of him by the unexpected insinuation. He'd have spit water if he'd been drinking it yet, but North merely laughed good naturedly at Jack's panic, easing it again momentarily.

Until Pitch shifted.

"I'm given to understand festive salutations are in order," he spoke with eyes still closed, not opening them until he'd finished, Jack noted, without actually offering any good cheer.

North snorted, "You are worse than Scrooge _and_ Grinch, so I won't be holding breath."

He waved for Jack to help himself to the tray, folding the screen aside entirely as he stepped in to check up on his belligerent patient. Pitch put up with the prodding much like a cat wrapped in a towel, even snarling with curled lip when North tilted the Boogeyman's head to inspect the stitches. "Oh, good. I think they will come out soon."

"And these?" Pitch lifted and turned over his wrists, brandishing the rude leaden cuffs.

North laughed quietly, as though he'd just been told a very funny joke, but was likely nursing his own head just as much as Jack and the Boogeyman both. "Here is deal: If you are leaving Pole for good, then, they come off. So long as you stay, and you may, Pitch," hell if that didn't earn the tinkerer the most bewildered look Jack had ever seen on that sharp face, "you have free run, _but_ ," North patted the manacles, gently pushing them down, "I am not having sneaky Boogeyman popping in and out of every shadow, startling Yeti, spooking reindeer, and terrifying elves."

Jack looked between the pair of them, wide eyed, and for the moment, forgotten. A fly on the wall of one of the most awkward potential truces. He wondered if North wasn't still feeling an excess of leftover holiday spirit, of both the figurative and alcoholic kind.

"I suppose I'm in no condition to refuse," Pitch broke eye contact first, scowling down at his bound and bandaged hands. North patted a shoulder this time, and the Boogeyman cringed in spite of himself, a little of Jack's sympathy returning to see North agitate the bruise. Not _too_ much holiday spirit then.

"At least the chains are off?" Jack offered over the rim of his water glass, having gotten a good enough look now to note their absence. A marked alteration from when he'd first dragged Pitch through the portal.

North grinned, coming back to the tray for another glass of water, and a demitasse cup of the fragrant coffee, "At first I thought maybe to leave them, like bell on cat," which bought him another ill-favoured glare. Jack mused to himself that _not_ leaving Pitch with a ready-made garrote had probably been for the best.

To Jack's surprise, while North kept the water for himself, he pressed the coffee on Pitch. The Boogeyman looked more than fit to argue, but North grumbled over his protests, " _Drink_ , you bullheaded _strashilishche_. At least five years you are not enjoying anything of life. Is not good for anybody. Cookies?"

He gestured back to the crowded plate upon the tray. Pitch shook his head and North snorted more deeply this time, a sound of great dissatisfaction as he assumed the chair beside the bed. "Always you are behaving this way. The boy has seen you bleeding, Pitch. You fool no one with this charade."

"It may come as a shock to you, North, but not all of us have little minions baking away day and night to feed some lingering mortal gluttony. _I don't. bother_. **_eating_**."

"You see why he is such a pleasant fellow," North spoke, sotto voce, to Jack behind his hand.

Jack, for his part, had been nibbling on a shortbread while watching the exchange with a chagrined and growing fascination. This was not the fighting of age-old enemies, which they surely were, but the sort of bickering touted as a staple of family holidays. In point of fact, North had taken the same pushy, encouraging attitude with Jack on his first New Year at the Pole.

None of them needed food to survive any more, and Jack, spending so long unseen, without a human dwelling and unable to buy foodstuffs anyway, had lost the habit rather quickly. He'd nicked the occasional cooling pie from open window sills at the start, just to see if he _could_ , but with no one to share his ill-gotten prize, and the guilt at spoiling a family's supper, it wasn't long before he'd given it up.

Becoming a Guardian had changed things. It wasn't as though Jack sat down to three meals a day, or anything even close, but every visit to the Pole, to the Warren, even the Tooth Palace, came with the offer of cookies, chocolates, or deliciously spiced pastries. Of cocoa, or carrot juice (not his favourite), or the intensely sweet hibiscus tea that Jack suspected Tooth wouldn't approve of any child drinking.

North had been the first to strong arm Jack into renewing his appetite, and he'd been surprised by how much difference it made in feeling like part of the world again. Accepted. Wanted.

And here North sat, doing the same to Pitch.

Jack reached a surreptitious hand down to the plate, climbed off his chair and strolled up to Pitch, emboldened perhaps by North's presence in the storeroom for once. "C'mon. How 'bout a gingerbread man? You can bite the head off him."

He held the biscuit out, smirking, while Pitch sneered, almost a sort of staring contest without the requisite eye-contact. Successfully bullied, Pitch scoffed and snatched it from Jack's hand. He didn't eat it though, merely stowed it on the saucer of the coffee cup North had burdened him with. Jack wondered if the little frosted effigy would vanish at some later point, when Pitch no longer felt under scrutiny.

North offered an encouraging smile to Pitch, but apparently wasn't going to sit around and make sure the Boogeyman took his advice. He drained his own glass of water and stood, putting a hand to Jack's shoulder this time. "It has been very long evening. Perhaps you will walk with me back to Workshop, Jack?"

"Uh," Jack glanced aside to Pitch again, found him once more leaning back with his eyes closed, as though it didn't matter to him either way what North and Jack got up to. Jack supposed it might even be a sort of dismissal, which he may have just earned, really. "Yeah, sure."

North closed the door way lightly behind them, striding a ways off down the corridor before he spoke again, a gentle tone without accusation. "I hope you will not hold tonight against Bunny. Tomorrow he is not likely even remembering these things that he said."

Jack shrugged uncomfortably. Pitch had been a surprisingly welcome distraction from the low, midpoint of the night, at least after a while. "You think he's really not gonna hold it against _me_?"

"You know Bunny, he is too serious. Especially when it comes to Pitch. But you have made _excellent_ Guardian, and he is knowing. The contest was just bad idea, and do _not_ give details to Pitch," North warned, tone moving from easy conversation to serious business that quickly. "He will only twist words and meanings."

Jack nodded dutifully, knowing North was right about Pitch, but not entirely sure he was right about Bunny. He supposed only time would tell, but it was difficult to just put the jabs and accusations out of mind. Obviously he'd guessed the wrong Guardian, when he'd thought this would go over hardest on Sandy.

"Be careful with Boogeyman, Jack," North's advice gentled again, more well-meaning concern for Jack, than mistrust of their wily adversary. "He is mysterious, but unpredictable. And I don't want to be kicking him out because he's hurt you, yes?"

"Thanks, Dad," Jack cringed, praying the insinuation wasn't intentional this time. North looked at him oddly enough that Jack felt it was a safe bet. Seriously. Pitch didn't exactly cut an unappealing figure, but, _Boogeyman_.

He wondered if he should bother telling North about the whole fear-starved thing, now that Pitch was up and awake. There was no more decision in their hands, on whether or not to keep him dormant; another consequence of Jack rushing off without thinking. When he mulled it over in that light, Jack settled on keeping the matter to himself. Last thing he needed was that little fact somehow getting back to Bunny.

 

~***~

 

January he spent bouncing back and forth between the Pole and snow days, keeping an eye peeled for stray Nightmares in between. Good news came in from the south that Bunny had bagged one just outside of Sydney. This had gone a _long_ way to improving the rabbit's mood on the whole matter, according to Tooth, even if the rest were still unaccounted for.

Jack still hadn't seen him in the fur, but Bunny began his gear-up for Easter directly following the New Year, every year. Eggs had to be held off until later in spring, but the lapine alchemist began preparing his chocolaty treats and other basket-goodies well in advance of the constantly shifting, vernal deadline.

It didn't exactly ease Jack's doubts, but it didn't send him into paroxysms of paranoia, either. There was another matter that had begun to weigh more and more heavily upon his mind.

Whenever he visited the Workshop, there was never any sign of Pitch. The routine had switched back to 'cocoa and cookies' with North, and almost unvarying gossip about the monster in the basement. Pitch remained in his furnished storeroom apparently, and hardly asked for anything. North was wont to take down the odd tray of goodies, but the elves were invariably the only real beneficiaries.

At the end of the month, when Jack came to visit, North didn't have their usual tray waiting in the workroom. Instead he held out a book to Jack, a perplexing volume on Gothic Revival architecture, and said, "He is asking to see you."

Jack's heart felt as though it somersaulted in his chest. If he'd been honest with himself, he'd been avoiding the storeroom intentionally. Not because he'd lost his curiosity about Pitch. Not because any of that nibbling worry had gone away. It was their continued and growing presence in his mind that kept Jack regulating himself to the upper portions of the Workshop.

Pitch was bad news. The enemy. And Jack was supposed to be a _Guardian_.

That hadn't stopped him from thinking about the Lair, every time he looked at one of Jamie's new panels for the comic. It sure as hell hadn't stopped him from remembering, vividly, Pitch's intensity when he'd asked, _"How much did you hear?"_ Or North when he'd said, _"Pitch is more like us than I often care to think."_ Tooth when she'd told him, _"We were all_ someone _before..."_

But Pitch hadn't been _chosen_ , Pitch just... _was_. Wasn't he...? It was the question Jack wasn't sure he was willing to ask.

It wasn't Jack's interest that compelled him down the Workshop staircases now though, it was Pitch's. Still, wondering what the Boogeyman could want with him (and apparently a book on very pointy buildings) was just about as good. Anticipation prickled his skin into goose-flesh, a sensation that the ever-frigid Jack Frost was far from used to.

The storeroom was darker than Jack remembered. The fire no longer burnt merrily in the grate, but smoldered low, black and red coals. The lamps had either been put out or lowered to nearly nothing, and with no windows but the little snowflake in the door, closing it plunged Jack into shadow more quickly than he'd expected.

Jack tried not to jump noticeably, well aware that this was likely all Pitch, deliberately messing with his head.

"Special delivery for Tall, Dark, and _Creepy_ ," Jack put the roll of his eyes into his voice, still not adjusted to the low light yet, and not exactly certain where Pitch might be waiting. The pale gold of his eyes flared into being almost directly at Jack's elbow, and this time he _did_ jump, plastering himself against the wall, dropping the book to the floor at his feet.

" _Je_ sus!" he gasped, clinging to his staff and heart racing faster than Bunny on Easter Sunday. The fragmented light from the crystal window shone a narrow beam between them, faintly recalling Jack to the Lair again.

Pitch sat presently at the writing desk, which occupied the space of wall between the doorway and the painted screen. It also had the advantage of complete concealment from the door itself when open. Jack glowered at the slowly clearing shape, which thankfully did not bother to rise. He hardly needed the extra shot of adrenaline that having Pitch suddenly tower over him would certainly induce.

"That's no way to treat the printed word," Pitch admonished, the tone a little smug, as he bent at the middle to retrieve the book. His reach was well long enough to manage without much shifting. The movements still looked stiff though, beneath the cover of a new black coat, which helped take the edge off Jack's panic. Just a little.

"You did that on purpose," Jack accused. Pitch's expression held no denial whatsoever, but he suddenly seemed more inclined to play the good host. He set the book beside the desk lamp and turned the key to brighten the room somewhat, for Jack's benefit.

"North sent down a tray," Pitch offered, his tone off-hand, as though he hadn't just intentionally frightened the daylights out of Jack. True enough, there was the familiar setting of frosted shortbread, sugared fruit tarts, and placidly smiling gingerbread men, piled along side two ceramic mugs of still-steaming cocoa. North must have had it set as soon as the Yeti spied Jack from the watchtowers.

Jack found it incredibly presumptuous and optimistic of both of them. "What makes you think I wanna have tea-time with the Boogeyman?"

_Shit_. _Shitshitshit! Wrong answer!_

It happened in an instant, a flicker of expression across Pitch's lamp-lit face, less than a heartbeat of stung loss-for-words. Then the blank mask slammed down over it. Jack's panic ratcheted up anew, certain he was about to be bodily thrown out and a door slammed in his face if he didn't act _immediately_ to somehow fix this.

Thank the Moon he'd become so _very_ adept with his Center.

Before Pitch could stand and grab him, Jack spun on his heel, taking a long skip further into the room. He presented his entire, unguarded back to the Boogeyman for another heart-hammering instant, and plucked a gingerbread man from the tray. As he righted himself, Jack moved quickly round to put the coffee table between them, getting his eye-line to toss the biscuit square at the now looming figure's chest.

It was a simple throw, easily caught. While the unexpected projectile distracted Pitch for another valuable second, Jack grinned and added, "After all, you weren't exactly keen with _me_ the last time."

Pitch held the biscuit uncertainly, Jack saw, in freshly bandaged hands. There was a little less gauze to the wrappings, but it meant that Pitch was still healing _agonizingly_ slowly. Jack now had a pretty clear idea what Pitch had really wanted with him, and boy howdy, he'd gotten it. But that didn't exactly explain that momentary _look_.

Fear still simmered away under Jack's facade of nonchalance, but he took the risk of plopping himself down on one of the fireside armchairs, gesturing across the tray and table for Pitch to shift to the other. To his immense relief, and all manner of new trepidation, Pitch obliged.

Jack racked his brains for safe forms of social interaction (which weren't his forte, safe or otherwise) as the Boogeyman settled himself. He decided health was the reason he was here, after all, so asking after it couldn't be too much of a landmine. He leaned forward and took a biscuit from the tray for himself. "Has North been able to take your stitches out? It's kinda hard to see..."

"Not yet," Pitch sighed quietly, a sound like letting go of tension. Encouraging. "Soon though, I should think."

"Yeah, no kidding," Jack chuckled and bit the corner off a star dusted in yellow sugar. He dropped his shoulders against the plush backrest of the chair, trying to find his ease, and pulled one foot up onto the cushion. Pitch looked at him in askance at his reply and Jack smirked in the gloom, betting at least Pitch could see properly.

"I kinda figured out the whole fear-starvation thing for myself eventually. I thought maybe you'd be alright, once you woke up, but... Between the gauze and the _heart-attack_ you just gave me, I guess I was a little optimistic, huh?"

"Recovery has not been easy," Pitch allowed. Jack heard the snap of a gingerbread limb in the half-light and wondered if it was lingering anger, or just idle fidgeting. Either way, Pitch didn't bring it to his mouth. After a moment he added, almost absently, "I dreamt of a storm."

Jack paused, another spoke of the star between his teeth. He bit it, chewed hastily, and swallowed dryly, "You could see that?"

Lupine eyes found his through the shadowed space between them. "So, you were _projecting_."

Apparently Jack's question had been an answer to one in Pitch's statement. Tricky. Goose-flesh rose on his neck and arms again as he nodded, slowly. "...I guess. I wasn't really sure what I was doing. You just kinda... relaxed, after..."

Jack was now intensely glad he'd chosen such an impersonal fear to bring to mind.

Pitch snapped something else off the gingerbread man, and Jack cringed internally, picturing the gradual, deliberate dismemberment of the poor, inanimate thing. He'd bet anything Pitch had gone for the legs, first.

"Look, I'm sorry if it was-"

"Always so certain you've done something _wrong_. I'll admit, you've got a talent, Frost, but it doesn't _always_ encompass _everything_." It was difficult to trust these words, given the irritable tone they'd been delivered in. Either way, Jack guessed he wasn't expected to apologise, but otherwise didn't know what he _should_ say.

_Snap._ Probably an arm gone now.

"...Thank you."

Jack would have missed that, if only the fire had been burning properly, if only Pitch hadn't spoken between one tick of the mantle clock and the next.

He didn't know why, but the two little words caused a fresh surge of panic, as though Pitch might be laying some sort of trap with the unprecedented gratitude. For one thing, it was confirmation of Jack's suspicions; it was his fault Pitch had ever woken up at all. But then, that was just one more domino in the row, stretching back to his decision to sneak into the Lair in the first place. "Uh... you're welcome...?"

"Am I?"

Jack's heart skipped again. The room felt suddenly close and warm. He actually had no idea how many feet of frozen earth were pressing down above them, but the storeroom was definitely no where near the surface. No light. No air. No windows.

_Snap_. Surely, there went the last limb.

Decapitation must be next.

" _Stop._ "

Jack jumped in his seat, staring wide-eyed at Pitch. At some point Jack had put his foot to the floorboards, and his hand had tightened on his staff. Pitch had leaned forward over his own lap, arms rested upon his knees, face turned down and shoulders sagging. The pieces of the gingerbread man were cradled in his hands, all still loosely held in place, though no longer properly connected.

"Please, stop," Pitch spoke more softly, "I'm not going to attack you."

Jack blinked his surprise, took a deep, deliberate breath, and let it out, slowly. Then he blushed, self-conscious, feeling ridiculously silly. He let go of his staff entirely, leaning it along side him in the chair again, and sat forward a bit to scrub his now free hand through his hair. His heartbeat was still tripping along a little fast, but seeing Pitch, intentionally making himself smaller...

"Sorry, I just... Hey, at least you can say you've still got it?"

Pitch straightened himself carefully, as though if he moved too quickly he might startle Jack. He took his own measured breath and looked for a moment like he might force a smile for the comment. Instead he just shook his head, the melancholy motion strangely nostalgic to Jack.

"What I meant, when I asked if I _am_ welcome, is... would you consider doing it again? Not just now, but... another time, perhaps."

Jack ran his tongue over the dry surfaces inside his mouth, wishing North had included a bit of water with the refreshments. He turned over the strange request in his mind, too afraid of saying the wrong thing now to flat refuse. It wasn't as though it had been difficult. Mildly headache-inducing, but not much worse than that.

The real issue lay in what it meant for Pitch. The regaining of strength, and perhaps one day, a return to power. That was a line Jack wasn't sure he could willingly walk. But if he refused, what happened then?

How much stronger would Pitch be after today? Would he be able to walk upstairs to the workroom, present his arms to North, and demand a return to exile? It would only be a matter of time after that. Perhaps more time, without Jack's help, but only a very little. But if Jack _agreed_ , then in the meantime...

"I'll think about it," he settled on the middle-ground, and even that earned him a look of mild disbelief. "But you've gotta do something for me first, Pitch."

The Boogeyman's expression became immediately wary, waiting silently on Jack's condition.

"Try the damn cookie."

Pitch looked down at the gingerbread man, as though surprised to find it still there. He stared at it blankly, like he didn't quite know what to do, then picked the central piece out from the midst of the ruin. As Jack had anticipated, the head and trunk had been cleanly separated from both arms and legs.

Pitch held it up for a moment, regarding the smiling, frosting face, before looking beyond to Jack. They locked eyes for a moment, across the biscuit, Jack doing everything in his power to suppress a grin. Pitch narrowed his gaze and the corner of his own mouth turned up, strained patience and amused chagrin.

" _Fine_."

He flashed a slightly uneven row of sharp incisors, and neatly decapitated the gingerbread man.


End file.
